


What Hopes Delude

by tmelange



Series: The Agony & the Ecstacy [2]
Category: Angel: the Series, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Dubious Consent, Jealousy, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Highlander/Angel: the Series crossover. Sometimes, what you think you want most is not what you need. Methos and Duncan MacLeod face some harsh realities where their relationship is concerned. Can their friendship be salvaged?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in 1998, and was part of my first foray into fanfiction. Consequently, it suffers from...well, it is what it is.
> 
> This story was also written as a response to a challenge on a yahoogroup called anyone_but_mac, which means that Methos had to be paired with someone other than the norm. Some Mac angst, which can be perceived as a bit of bashing, was a necessary by-product. If you are a rabid Duncan/Methos fan, or a Duncan fan, this is not the story for you. Rest assured, Duncan/Methos was my first OTP, and I really do love Duncan lots.
> 
> This AU was written in the middle of season two of Angel: TS. In this story, Angel is still in possession of the Gem of Amarra—the ring that grants a vampire eternal protection and allows him to walk in the sun unscathed.

What Hopes delude thee, miserable Man?  
Think’st thou thus unintomb’d to cross the Floods,  
To view the Furies, and Infernal Gods;  
And visit, without leave, the dark abodes?  
Attend the term of long revolving Years:  
Fate, and the dooming Gods, are deaf to Tears.  
This Comfort of thy dire Misfortune take;  
The Wrath of Heav’n, inflicted for thy sake.

 _Aen. VI,_ Virgil, trans. John Dryden

+

Joe Dawson was waiting for the sky to fall. He could not think of a more poetic end to this most miserable day. He was furious. Tired. His prostheses were killing him. And, of course, Methos had left him with the dead Highlander.

 _As usual, I'm the one who gets stuck dealing with the dead, two hundred pound Highlander skewered to the wall. Who else?_ Joe thought to himself with annoyance. "I'm his Watcher not his mother, dammit!" Joe grumbled out loud and with no small amount of vehemence. After all that had happened, it felt good to complain a little even if there was no one around to hear him rail.

"Did the old man have to kill him?" Joe griped plaintively, shaking his head and walking towards his dead friend. "With his own sword, no less! Mac's going to be furious." Joe looked more closely at the sword protruding from Duncan's chest, wiggled it a little, trying to determine just how hard it was going to be for him to get the sword out of the wall.

 _Well, he had it coming, that's for sure. He can be one self-righteous asshole,_ Joe thought wryly. _I was about ready to shoot him myself...._ He checked his watch. He wanted to give Methos plenty of time to get clear of the area before he revived Duncan. The lights in the warehouse flickered and the wind whipped through the broken windows. It sure had been one hell of a night.

 _I'll give it a few more minutes,_ he thought to himself and while he waited, he pondered his recalcitrant Immortal, Duncan MacLeod.

Joe thought back over this most recent conflagration between Duncan and Methos and felt his irritation ebb a little. It was sad, really. _At this rate, the two of them are going to kill each other. For good,_ he thought morosely. He decided to summarize the problem for posterity, so that he could add it to his personal journal later. Grinning wickedly, he had thought it the better part of discretion to leave his suppositions out of Mac's _official_ journal but his _personal_ journal.... _Now that's a juicy piece of work!_ He couldn't possibly leave all of this out of his personal journal. It would be too much to ask.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his personal recorder. He checked to make sure that he had enough blank tape in the little machine. Then took a deep breath, worked his shoulders and neck a little to ease the tension, pressed the record button and began.

+

Okay, obviously, Mac's in love with Methos. Well, maybe it's not so obvious. He just hasn't admitted it to himself. Or maybe he has admitted it to himself but just doesn't want anyone to know about it. I'm not too sure at this point.

But what I am sure about is that Mac and Methos have been doing the horizontal tango since before the Horsemen debacle in '96 and that Mac seems very uncomfortable with making the situation public. In fact, neither Mac nor Methos has ever come right out and discussed this development with me, unbelievable as that may seem. God knows I get stuck dealing with every other problem that comes down the pike.

Of course, the fact that I don't have verbal confirmation of the exact goings on doesn't bother me, really. Sheesh! Half the time I don't know whom they think they're fooling. I have eyes. I'm a Watcher for chrissake! Mac couldn't have been more obvious about his lust for the old man if he had written _I love to fuck Methos_ on the bathroom wall of the bar with neon paint. Half the time, I really just want to slap Mac on the back of his head and say, "Geez-us, just piss on him already! That'll keep everyone away. Trust me...."

 _Hmmm . . . I wonder if they've ever.... Nah. I'd better just stick to the story._

Want to know what really drives me crazy? It's the way the two of them look at each other when they think no one is paying attention. They must really think I'm blind. Well, let me be the first one to tell ya, I may have a small mobility problem but there's nothing wrong with my eyesight. Of course, the googly eyes are only the tip of the iceberg.

There were the longing looks and the frank appraisals; the accidentally on purpose touching and the rampant over-protectiveness; the million and one excuses to crash at each other's apartment and the out-of-proportion emotional outbursts. The out-of-proportion emotional outbursts–yep, can't forget those.

Sometimes it seemed that the two of them would do anything, use any excuse, to be in the other's company. Yet, inexplicably, everything that should have been so straightforward was always somehow skewed just left of reasonable. I don't know what arrangement those two guys are operating under but it certainly is not working. I'm really going to have to give this whole situation some serious space in my journal. Wouldn't want to loose the flavor, the essential essence of all this angst, the titillation that only explicit details can provide....

Anyway, I think it's safe to say that Methos is stuck on Mac, too. Big time. After all, if there's one thing I know about the old man, it's that he has better places to be than Seacouver. And it's safe to say that he steps aside whenever one of Mac's old love interests shows up. Amanda, Claudia, Rachel, Anne. The list goes on and on. Methos always steps aside, reluctantly but graciously, affecting a nonchalance that, I guess, is supposed to show that he doesn't care. Yeah, right.

So, whatever strange and casual arrangement those two have developed over the last few years was devised or is at least perpetuated by Mac. Although Methos may act cynical and indifferent most of the time, it is very obvious to me that the whole situation bothers him more than a little. After all, I can read Methos like an open book.

After the Horsemen incident . . . well, after the Horsemen, everything changed. What was once a situation full of potential suddenly became this dark and ugly soap opera filled with anger and hurt, pride and enraged jealousy. Too many times I had to step between them, Mac being confrontational and overbearing, Methos placating and conciliatory. Still, after it was all said and done, they could barely keep their hands off each other.

Then, the situation went from bad to worse. If I were to think about when, exactly, it became obvious to me that the Mac-Methos pseudo-clandestine-relationship-thing was out of control I would have to start with Byron. And, of course, if I started with Byron, I'd sure have to end it when Mac "rescued" Joi.

 _Byron._ Damn. Although, at the time, I sympathized with Methos' grief over the death of a friend, I am definitely glad the son-of-a-bitch is dead. Byron was like one of those sirens that lured hapless mortals to their doom–beautiful and beautifully deadly. The man was bad news, and Mac had every right to challenge him. Byron had to be stopped before he caused anyone else's death. I only wish that I really knew that Mac's motives in killing Byron were so altruistic. I'd really hate to think that what was really motivating Mac was jealousy. I've just always considered him too noble for such self-serving pathos.

But Mac certainly played the part of a jealous boyfriend when Byron first showed up at the bar, although he may never admit it to himself. And, afterwards, it was as if the incident, Byron's presence and obvious interest in Methos, opened a floodgate of pent up passions. After Mac took Byron's head, he was constantly in Methos' face, pushing him, pulling him, dragging him in and out of the bar, basically manhandling him obnoxiously. If they hadn't been two grown and capable men, I would have had to step in on a number of occasions. Called the police or something.

Now that I really think about the whole situation in retrospect, it's pretty clear that neither of them have been rational for quite some time. I really have to pin the two of them down on the exact details of that double quickening they took in Bordeaux. What with their ridiculous behavior and this strange ability they seemed to have developed to "recognize" the other's quickening and to feel when the other is in trouble, I just know that the double quickening has to be at the root of the problem. But time always seemed to fly as crises after crises swept by, and I just never had the time to give the matter the attention it clearly deserves. And, of course, the two of them were as tight lipped as cloistered virgins about the incident. I'm going to have to do some serious research about this whole situation because something is certainly rotten in Denmark–or Seacouver as the case may be–and I intend to find out what before one of my two best friends gets seriously hurt.

After Byron, the relationship thing seemed to quiet down mostly. Or, at least, there were so many other things going wrong that I didn't have time to worry about Mac and Methos' sexual escapades or lack thereof. Ahriman, Richie's death, Mac heading off to parts unknown, all served to mask what was, in hindsight, a bomb waiting to explode. And when Mac returned to Paris, you better believe that everything started up again, more intensely than before.

Well, that's not really fair. I don't want to give the impression that it was all high drama and emotional turmoil. Everything seemed to be settling down a bit about a year and a half ago after that little thief Amanda skipped town. Amanda sure is easy on the eyes and, truthfully, I usually don't mind having her around, but I sure was glad to see her go that last time. While she was in town, Methos developed this habit of drinking himself to death, _literally,_ that I found most unpleasant. It was really bad for business, never mind inconvenient as _hell._

After Amanda left, things finally settled into a more normal state of affairs. Everyone relocated back to Seacouver like one big happy family, and Mac seemed to stop actively looking for extraneous love interests. He and Methos settled into a routine, connected at the hip on most days. They acted like an old married couple, in fact. I can't help remembering those days with a smile. Mac and Methos were just too cute. They both taught at the University and spent most nights at the bar shooting the breeze. Methos even opened up a little about his past escapades. Now what does _that_ tell you?

They left the bar together almost every night and although I know that Methos maintains an apartment in Seacouver, I'm sure he didn't see the inside of it much. Methos was happy, Mac was happy, everyone was happy.

And then, guess what? Shit happened and _poof,_ it all went to hell in a hand basket. Joi was suddenly part of the equation, a beautiful damsel-in-distress, needing help from the noble Highlander–our very own femme fatale, foisted on us by fate to upset our little cart of apples.

 _I better take a deep breath. Don't want to get too worked up._

It all started about three months ago with a seemingly innocuous phone call from Tom Askew. Tom is a fellow Watcher whom I've known since basic training at the Academy. He's a field agent and, from what I knew of him at the time, a good guy. Inconspicuous. Quiet, mostly. Never one to put himself forward unnecessarily.

Tom was assigned to the immortal Cyrus Baine, a real piece of work. If there was such a thing as a "good" Immortal list and a "bad" Immortal list, Baine was definitely rather high up on the bad list. He was pretty old too, as far as it goes. The Watches had him pegged at about 1500 years. No knowing for sure, though, as it's been rather hard to get anyone too close to him.

Tom called me with a problem that I took very seriously. Apparently, his Immortal had taken to terrorizing this mortal woman by the name of Joi Masters. It was supposed to be a really bad situation, and Tom expressed concern that his Immortal would tire of harassing her and kill her outright. I got the impression that Tom was somehow involved with Joi on a personal level and I sympathized with him. After having my own daughter, Amy, held hostage by an Immortal, you could say I was very sensitive to the situation. Okay, so I offered to help any way I could. Little did I know I was being played like a piano.

What seemed to be the easiest and most natural thing to do was to have Joi come to Seacouver–anticipating that Baine would soon follow–and have Mac challenge him. I discussed the situation with Mac and he agreed, perhaps a little reluctantly at first. I wasn't too worried about the outcome, though. Mac's notorious for his boyscout routine. I knew he couldn't resist the chance to save an innocent mortal from the clutches of an evil Immortal. He's as predictable as the sun rising in the morning. Too bad that it's just his nature.

But Methos . . . Now Methos didn't like the situation from the start and I have to admit, he turned out to be right on the money. Guess his age and experience should be good for something. Other than freeloading and running up an exorbitant bar tab, that is.

But the old man definitely went about imparting his pearls of wisdom the wrong way. He spent the entire time before Joi's arrival criticizing Mac's propensity to help all and sundry, verbally whipping everyone in sight with caustic remarks. No one escaped unscathed, myself included. It was almost impossible to be around him for any length of time. Most nights I wanted to shoot him and put us out of our misery. Of course, Mac just dug in his heals.

And then Joi arrived, and was she a piece of work! Beautiful as the day is long; a porcelain doll with ivory white skin and long brown hair. Reminded me of Audrey Hepburn right off the bat–witty, clearly intelligent but in a quiet, shy way, seemingly as defenseless as a little lamb. And she showed up with this big bruise on the left side of her face, can't forget that. Didn't really mar her beauty, though. Just made you feel _real_ sorry for her. Yep, she was a piece of work.

Well, Mac took one whiff of her and lost all sense of reason. Thinking back, I'm amazed he didn't realize that something was wrong. Everything was just too convenient: the call from Tom, the distressed mortal more attractive than any woman had the right to be, the problem that only Mac could solve. Way too convenient.

At the time, Methos was the only one asking questions and, really, in the beginning, he did seem to be motivated by jealousy. I mean, Mac did drop him like a hot potato.

I get an almost physical pain in my chest when I think about how Mac treated Methos when Joi showed up. I had to stand by and watch. What was I going to say? They're two grown men. I remember the hurt that was flung at the old man on a daily basis. The cancelled plans, the brush-offs, the callously glowing recitation of Joi's many virtues, the way Methos sat at the bar night after night, alone. I still can't believe that Mac could be so insensitive, cruel even. He seemed to want to distance himself from Methos, like he was embarrassed about their relationship. He clearly wanted Joi to come away with the impression that he and Methos were nothing more than good friends. Perhaps in his mind that's all they are. Who knows?

Methos sat in the bar night after night, alone, drinking himself under the table while Mac escorted Joi around town, ostensibly "protecting" her from Baine. She was even staying at the loft. Let me tell you, I thought Methos was going to swallow his tongue when _that_ was decided.

A couple of weeks after Joi was ensconced at Mac's, Baine finally blew into town and made a couple of tries for her but, in retrospect, they were half-hearted tries at best. Mac could never get him to accept a proper challenge and all Baine's presence served to do was to cause Mac to go into _hyper_ protective mode. This is probably when Mac started sleeping with her.

And I don't care what anyone says. I asked Mac to help her, not fuck her. If I would have known that Mac would have reacted to Joi the way he did, if I had known that Mac would do what he did to Methos, I would never have suggested . . . But it's all water under the bridge now.

Then the real problems started. Joi was very inquisitive for such a seemingly shy girl, and one of the many things she wanted to know was whether Adam Pierson was Immortal. And Mac told her. Oh, she rationalized needing to know because she didn't want bystanders to get hurt when Baine came after her, blah, blah, blah. Bottom line is, Mac told her. Then she wanted to know if "Adam" was Methos' real name and how old he was. It was all in the context of "getting to know Mac's friends" and she asked many other questions to camouflage the issue, but what it all came down to was that she wanted to know about Methos.

Of course, Methos wasn't having it. He hated her, barely tolerated her presence. He refused to take her into his confidence and reveal his identity, and she just kept on asking questions, innocently, with those big brown eyes. Mac had to lie about it over and over again. I think his response to Joi was in some weird way tied up with his prior experience with Tessa. I truly think he regrets having lied to Tessa for all those years about the nature of the game and everything, especially because it ended up hurting her anyway. He probably feels guilty mostly because she was taken from him so prematurely, and he's the type to regret any falsehoods that blemished any part of their relationship. As Mac got more serious about his relationship with Joi, he really played the friendship card with Methos. He and the old man argued constantly about revealing his identity. Well, "argued" is probably too mild a word.

They had fights of _titanic_ proportions, and Methos would not budge. I really thought at the time that he was about ready to pull one of his famous disappearing acts. But for his responsibilities at the University, I'm sure he would have cashed in his chips. I wouldn't have blamed him. That's how unfair Mac was being.

Mac's rationale was basically that he hated to lie to the woman he "loved." That was a real kick in the face for Methos. Mac reasoned that if me, Amanda, Richie, Connor, Anne and Rachel knew Methos' real identity then it should be all right for Joi to know too. After all, Mac trusted her, and if Mac trusted her then, obviously, she was trustworthy. What a crock of shit.

Well, Methos, with the good sense he was born with, refused to even consider it. But can you believe that after one particularly nasty fight with the old man, Duncan told her anyway?

When the shit hit the fan, all Mac could say was that since Joi was mortal, it wouldn't really mean anything to her that Methos was THE Methos. Mac wouldn't have to lie about it anymore and everyone would be one big happy family. Mac must have been under the delusion at that point that Methos would just suck it up.

Once Joi was on the "same page" as everyone else about Methos' identity, guess who calls? My Watcher "friend," Tom Askew.

Out of the blue, Tom claimed that we didn't have to worry about Baine anymore, that he had lost a challenge and was the shorter by one head. The threat was over but the damage had been done. It had taken all of three months. So Baine was dead. How convenient. Even I got suspicious at that point. Methos and I started looking into the situation more closely–something we probably should have done at the outset–and we uncovered some really interesting information about Tom Askew and his relationship with his Immortal. Seems that they were really quite friendly, and he had made some suspicious deposits into his bank account recently. There were some concerns about him and his relationship to his Immortal logged into his personnel file by his superiors at Headquarters.

And Joi. There was absolutely no proof to be had that Baine had ever been stalking her. In fact, there was a picture of Baine and an unidentified woman logged into Baine's journal. Although the picture was far from clear, the woman's distinguishable features closely resembled Joi's.

If Methos and I could be said to be on the same page regarding the situation's potential danger, well, Mac was way out in left field. Nothing that Methos or I could say or show Mac convinced him that Joi was a potential snake in the grass. After a point, he simply refused to listen. He and Methos would argue, and Mac would accuse him of having every ulterior motive under the sun, except that Methos was concerned about him, of course.

Well, it all came to a head yesterday. Apparently, Joi called Mac on Thursday to arrange to have him meet her for lunch. Mac disappeared–this becoming obvious when he didn't show up to teach his classes Friday morning. The dean called Adam Pierson, Mac's best friend, to find out what was going on. Then three Watchers showed up dead, and Methos received the infamous, "Give yourself up or you'll never see MacLeod again," phone call, setting the switch up for Saturday night.

What followed was a flurry of reconnaissance work that would have put the CIA to shame. Of course, the key piece of information we were looking for was where the kidnappers were holed up. We already pretty much knew who was involved. Askew, Baine, of course Joi, and the three Immortals assigned to the dead Watchers. We pretty much knew why. After all, all roads lead to Methos–the oldest living Immortal, the old man with the big quickening, the Game's goddamn Holy Grail.

Note to self: that Methos "just a guy" routine is a crock of shit. I mean, I won't blow his cover or anything but he won't be fooling me with _that_ act anymore. I don't have "Boo Boo the Fool" written on my forehead! I have always suspected that Methos had resources beyond what was evident on a day-to-day basis. It would only make sense for a 5000 year-old man to be pretty astute. But what I witnessed during the twenty-four hours between when we first got the call about Mac and when Methos finally went in to get him out, was down right scary. The old man looks so harmless! I knew Methos was good with computers, but I didn't know that he's a veritable computer wizard. He can hack into any database, anywhere. I saw him do it. The phone company, the bank, the Watcher database, nothing seemed to daunt him. He hacked into all those places and more to find out where they were keeping MacLeod.

I guess this is when I finally realized what Mac means to him. I knew they were involved physically and that they were best friends, and I realized that each had gone to bat for the other on a number of occasions over the past few years, but who would have guessed that Methos was so emotionally invested in the situation? I would not even hazard a guess as to what a 5000 year-old man would consider indispensable, that thing he felt he wouldn't want to live without. Apparently, for a certain 5000 year-old man, that indispensable thing is named Duncan MacLeod.

The Methos that I thought I knew would have been quite capable of skipping town at the first sign of trouble. He would have left Mac to his own devices, reasoning that if Mac got himself into the situation, he could get himself out. But the Methos that I met yesterday was a different animal entirely.

Maybe it was the hair that sent him over the edge. They cut the length off of Mac's hair and sent it to the bar in a box to let us know that they were serious. Perhaps it was the bond they share, the result of that double quickening. Methos could tell when they killed him–and they killed Mac over and over again. Methos could somehow feel it when Mac was in pain. I don't know. What I do know is that if I had to describe the person that I was dealing with during the last twenty-four hours, I would have to say I was dealing with Methos the Horseman know as Death.

It seemed to me that more than the desire not to lose a person that he obviously loves, Methos just couldn't stand the thought that Mac would lose his head because of him. As we frantically tried to find out where Mac was being held, I watched as Methos lost himself. Watched as his eyes turned gold and he grew wild around the edges. I watched the love and the fear tear away the everyday facade and reveal the uncivilized face of the world's oldest living man. Now, more than ever, I appreciate how far Methos has come, why he runs, why his philosophy is to "do nothing," why he avoids fighting and quickenings. I saw how easy it is for him to fall back on the old ways, how violence comes to his heal like an old dog, how Death shines in his eyes, turning his irises gold with fury. Last night I was introduced to his tortured soul.

We bearded Askew at his house. Apparently, Askew felt his cover was safe and that we would be too busy concentrating on Mac to make the connections to his part in the plan. Methos wrung the truth out of him, at least as much as he knew. Askew explained Joi's part, detailed the people involved, the plan. The only thing he couldn't tell us was who orchestrated it all and why. Askew didn't know and he didn't care as long as he got paid.

When we located MacLeod, when Methos had the location on a piece of paper in his hand, I wondered what the old man would do to the perpetrators when he found them, what type of vengeance a Horseman called Death would exact. Now I know. I could almost feel sorry for them.

One mortal, four Immortals and Methos the only one left standing–that is the tally. When I walked into the warehouse, took in the carnage, the blood everywhere, the heads and the dead bodies, I was afraid that Mac and Methos were dead. That I had been stripped of my dearest friends, my favorite projects, the purpose of all my days. I have to say that when I realized they were alive even though everyone else was dead, I was glad. Whatever Methos had to do, whatever demons he had to raise, whatever he had to become to preserve Mac's life and his own, I have weighed it in the balance and count it well worth the cost. I can't bring myself to mourn those murders or to spurn Methos for doing what needed to be done. Maybe it's the military man in me. 

I can only hope that Mac will feel the same way. Eventually.

When I first revived Mac at Methos' direction, after I had pulled the knife out of his back, I naively hoped that he would wake up and appreciate it–appreciate what Methos went through for him by pulling his ass out of the fire yet again. But, after what Mac said tonight, I doubt that he even realizes what Methos has done for him, how much of himself he sacrificed. I suspect not the least part of which is his peace of mind. Mac didn't even let him get a word in edgewise.

Truth to tell, I was jealous when I first realized that Mac and Methos had gotten involved, that their relationship had evolved to a level that didn't include me. Not just because I was afraid they would exclude me as the third wheel. I envied them their capacity to love after so many years, so much adversity. I envied them the potential that, with a little luck, they could love forever, or at least until the Gathering.

Imagine it. What a love! Methos, the oldest of them all, and Duncan MacLeod, the best of them all. Now look at everything. I really don't know if they can make it back this time. It's such a damn shame. They almost made it, despite it all.  



	2. Chapter 2

  
Sugar and spice  
And everything nice  
That's what little girls are made of.

 _Traditional_

+

Joe sighed. _So much swimming,_ he thought sadly, _only to die upon the shore._

 _Time's up._ He grasped the hilt of the katana and started working it back and forth, trying to coax the blade out of the drywall without making the hole in Duncan 's chest too much bigger. It was disgusting work, and had Joe not been immunized to such gruesomeness by his stint in Vietnam, he would have been sick.

Finally, the blade pulled free of the wall as Joe stumbled backwards, cursing, off balance from his exertions. Duncan, propped against the wall, slipped slowly to the floor.

Joe watched his friend intently, waiting for the first signs of life. He did not have to wait long. He saw the small tendrils of blue white energy snake across Duncan's chest like the gentle caress of a lover; saw the skin slowly knit itself back together. No matter how many times Joe witnessed this unnatural healing process, he could not help but feel amazed, awed at the miracle he was witnessing. He watched as Duncan's chest started to rise and fall, rise and fall. Duncan inhaled sharply, and his eyes fluttered open. He sat up abruptly.

"Methos . . ."

"Take it easy for a minute, Mac. The old man left already. Here, let me help you. We need to get out of here."

As Joe moved to help him get up, Duncan seemed to come back to himself, and with a rush, bounded to his feet. He grabbed Joe by the arms.

"Joi— No...."

He looked around frantically and spotted the woman's body lying in a heap on the floor, in a pool of her own blood. He rushed over, knelt down and scooped her up, holding the dead body to his chest tightly.

"Where is he, Joe?" Duncan said quietly, cold fury barely restrained. "Where did he go?"

Joe shook his head and felt his temper breaking its bounds, the vain throbbing at the side of his forehead.

"Why? So you can take his head? Over her? MacLeod, you need to listen to a few facts first—"

Duncan interrupted, his voice loud in the empty warehouse, harsh and peremptory. "Listen to what, Joe! Listen to you defending him again!" He shouted as he hunched over the dead body in his arms.

"He killed her! Are you going to tell me that what he did was right, that I should understand because he was trying to save my life? He killed her in cold blood. She tried to get away from him but he didn't give her the chance. She didn't have the chance to say anything, to explain what was going on! He just killed her. I know her. She wouldn't have hurt anyone...." He trailed off, desolation evident in every syllable, despair in every line of his body.

Joe stared at Duncan for a moment, frozen in amazement, and the dam broke. The night had been too long, the pressure too intense, and Joe was tired. Bone weary and tired of everything. Most of all, he was tired of Duncan and his sanctimonious self-righteousness. Joe decided right then and there that his Immortal was going to hear the truth about himself, Joi, the old man and everything—whether he liked it or not.

"MacLeod! You're amazing! Get up. Put that woman down and get over here. I'm going to tell you what's really going on, and you are going to listen for a change or I swear to God I will shoot you and cut your head off myself!"

Duncan looked at Joe, astonishment written across his face with a broad and heavy stroke. He laid Joi's body down gently on the ground, smoothed back her hair, straightened her clothes and got up slowly. He moved towards Joe. He noticed how Joe's chest was puffed out a little and how his chin was jutting out pugnaciously. He considered and thought it the best course of action to just listen to whatever Joe had to say since it was obviously so important to him. It was pointless getting into a big fight with his Watcher. Besides, he needed Joe to find Methos. That bastard had probably gone to ground, and Joe was the only person likely to know where he was holed up. If there was one thing Duncan knew, Methos was going to pay dearly for what he had done.

Joe watched Duncan move towards him slowly and stop. Apparently, he was ready to listen. Joe was glad for that. Duncan had moved across the floor menacingly, and Joe thought for a minute that he and his Immortal were going to come to blows. Joe was ready. He had his hand on the gun in his pocket. He would do whatever he had to do to knock some sense into his friend. He couldn't let him leave the warehouse and go after Methos. That would be a disaster.

"MacLeod, I don't know what you think you know but you certainly didn't know her." Joe gestured derisively towards Joi's dead body. "I suggest you save your tears for someone who deserves it and put some energy into figuring out how you're going to apologize to the old man."

Duncan interrupted him again. "Joe, what are you talking about? Apologize? For what? If I never see Methos again it'll be too soon because as soon as I do catch up to him he's going to be shorter by one head." Duncan took breath to continue his deprecations on the absent Immortal.

"Mac! Will you shut up and listen! Are you really this dense or is it just situations involving Methos that you can't wrap your mind around? Joi, your golden girl, the girl you betrayed your best friend for, set you up. She is, or was, _Baine's_ girlfriend. She _never_ loved you. Apparently, Joi, Baine and my Watcher friend, Tom Askew, were paid big money to flush Methos out. They were being paid in the millions by an unidentified source. For some reason, you were targeted as the person most likely to know where the mythical Methos was holed up. I guess it was just fortuitous for them that you happened to be sleeping with him at the time."

He watched Duncan's face flush as he sent a guilty look Joe's way.

"He told you...?" Duncan sputtered, embarrassment evident in the tone of his voice.

"No. No one told me but you two haven't exactly been the souls of discretion over the years, and I do get paid to keep an eye on you."

"You haven't put this in my journal have you?" Duncan interrupted quickly, clearly alarmed, his face flushing a deeper shade of red.

"Is that your biggest concern? That a homosexual relationship will end up in your journal?" Joe shook his head, regretfully. "No, I didn't put anything about your relationship with Methos in your journal. And I won't." He heard Duncan exhale sharply. "Who you sleep with is your own business but, for the record, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. You're Immortal for chrissake! What do you care what people think? Methos was really good for you. Lately, you looked happier than you have for a long time. You know Mac, there are people in this world that would give their right arm to have what you have with him." Joe stopped as he realized that he had gotten off track. With a flash of insight, it suddenly occurred to him that Duncan never really loved Joi. He was just running from Methos and all that a same sex relationship implied. It was all so crystal clear.

Joe thought he had better return to what he and Methos had uncovered. He could straighten out Duncan's relationship with the old man later. Now that he knew exactly what the problem was.

Joe looked at Duncan who was lost in contemplation. He walked over to where Duncan's sword was lying on the floor, picked it up and handed it to him.

"Methos and I haven't been able to figure out exactly who's looking for him and why but whoever it is apparently wants him alive and with his head attached. But for that fact, I suspect that both of you would have been dead . . . permanently. We cornered Askew and found out the whole story, at least as much of it as he knew. Joi was supposed to incapacitate the both of you so that you could be transported easily to whomever is behind all this." Joe watched Duncan flinch at every new fact but he showed no mercy.

"Fortunately, Methos never trusted her. The only way they could be sure to get him without killing him was to blackmail him into giving himself up. You were the bait to insure his cooperation. Joi's the one that actually set you up, you know. She called you to meet her for lunch on Thursday, drugged you and had her Immortal buddies pick you up. She killed three Watchers with her own hands, two shots to the head each. They had families, Mac, wives, children...." Joe stopped, the bitterness poured out of his mouth like water from an urn. He took a deep breath and started speaking again, while Duncan stood frozen like a deer in the headlights, looking at Joe in shock.

"Have you realized that it's Saturday night, Mac? Methos and I have been going crazy looking for you. They contacted him, threatened to take your head. They cut your hair and sent it to him in a box!" Joe watched Duncan's hand shoot to the back of his neck. _He hadn't even realized what they did to his hair,_ Joe thought to himself sardonically. _Well, he doesn't look too bad with it short and it serves him right, like the scarlet letter._ Joe took another deep breath and continued the telling.

"Mac, I know you mean well but I don't think you realize the magnitude of what has happened. You've alienated a man who risked everything for your sake, who loves you more than his own life. You know that your good opinion means _everything_ to Methos and tonight you purposely beat him down with your reprobation. He moved mountains to find you, and every hour that passed without us knowing where you were brought us closer to the rendezvous time. Mac, believe me, if we hadn't been able to find you, Methos would have given his life to save yours." Joe watched his heartfelt words batter at Duncan's stubborn pride, watched his countenance finally sag with remorse and shame as he realized what had really happened this night in this warehouse, and Joe felt a little tingle of satisfaction at his suffering in the depths of his heart. Perhaps he had gotten through to him. Joe felt that it was time for the final point.

"I think you're going to regret the things that you said to Methos tonight and the way that you've treated him over the last three months, Mac." Joe shook his head sadly.

"Joi was the monster. You didn't know her at all. She would have killed the both of you; she did kill three innocent men, all for money. If I had gotten here first, I would have shot her myself to prevent those Immortals from killing you or the old man. She deserved to die, as did Baine and her three friends. Methos only meted out justice.

"If you don't believe me, Mac, I have the file in the car. Details, pictures, everything that you need to know...." Joe sputtered to a stop. Duncan was saying something. His voice was so low that Joe had to strain to hear.

"Sounds like you knew about her all along, Joe. Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me get involved with her if you suspected—"

Joe interrupted him angrily. "Why didn't we tell you?" Joe asked incredulously, righteous indignation coloring his voice. "Mac, you wouldn't listen! God knows we tried to talk some sense into you on more than one occasion." Joe stopped, speechless.

Duncan shook his head in denial. "He still didn't have to kill her. Maybe I could have talked to her. Maybe everything wasn't as bad as it seemed. Askew could have been feeding you information to cover his part in all of this. She's dead, and now we will never know," Duncan said bitterly. "He knew I cared for her. He didn't have to kill her—"

Joe interrupted again, irony dripping from every word. "Should he have spared her for your sake, Mac? The way you spared Byron?" Duncan flinched.

"That was different," Duncan protested quickly in his own defense. "Byron was Immortal. I offered him a fair challenge. Joi was mortal and defenseless. Methos betrayed my trust in him when he killed her."

Joe sputtered. He just couldn't believe that Duncan was taking this position, that somehow his warped perception had found its way back to Methos as the villain. It was as if he wanted to have something for which to hold Methos accountable—perhaps to justify his own inexcusable behavior. Joe was at wit's end.

"MacLeod! You betrayed _him!_ He trusted you with his identity. You knew that people would be hunting him if it ever got out that Methos was more than just a myth. It was not your decision to make to tell Joi anything about him. When you asked him he said no, but you had to have your own way about this. Just like with Richie and Amanda and Connor and Anne and even me. You just can't seem to get it through your thick head that it is not always the best course of action to be up front about things and that Methos is not a "coward" for keeping his identity to himself. Not every Immortal can afford the luxury of announcing himself as "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the name they were born with. Maybe when, or if, you get to be 5000 years old you'll find that you have a reason or two to hide _your_ identity. Wouldn't that be poetic justice?" Joe closed the distance between himself and Duncan and pointed accusingly at him, poking his finger at his friend's chest.

"If there is one thing I do know about Methos even if I don't know _everything_ about him is that he doesn't want to kill anyone. He wants to avoid trouble. He tries to stay out of the Game. After all this time, after everything he's done for you, you should know it too." Joe was tired and beyond disgusted. He waxed eloquent like the narrator of a Shakespearean tragedy.

"This whole situation, this whole sorry state of affairs, the blood and death, can all be laid at your door if at anyone's. The death, the carnage and the old man's role in it was a battlefield of _your_ creation. All of this," Joe swept his arms wide in a grand gesture, taking in the whole of the warehouse, the broken windows, the debris everywhere, the blood, the decapitated bodies, the bodiless heads and by implication the state of the soul of a man who was not currently present but who had left behind his indelible mark, "was inflicted because of your stubbornness and for your sake.

"Mac, do me a favor and think about whether you really loved that woman. I don't want to try and tell you how you feel but I know you. Weren't you really just using her as a socially acceptable substitute for your relationship with Methos? It all happened so quickly, and it really seems to me that perhaps it was just an ego thing. Think about it and I hope you can bring yourself to apologize to him before he's out of your life for good. You don't have that many friends left." Joe took Duncan's arm and started to move him towards the door.

"Let's get out of here. I'm tired. I'll call and have this place cleaned up. My car's parked outside. I'll take you home...." Joe stopped suddenly as Duncan stumbled, all the color quickly draining from his face.

 _"Methos . . ."_

"Mac, what's wrong?" Joe asked quickly, immediately concerned.

"Joe, it's Methos. Something's happening to him...." Duncan changed quickly from inactive to active mode. "I felt him die. He's in trouble. I have to help him—" Duncan rushed towards the door.

"Mac, wait!" Joe scrambled to catch hold of his arm before he could make it out the door. He didn't think it was a good idea to have Duncan chasing Methos after what had happened tonight. Whatever was going on, Joe was sure that Methos could take care of it himself.

"Mac, Methos is very capable of taking care of himself. After what just happened between the two of you tonight, do you really think that he wants your help?"

Duncan paused uncertainly. "I don't know, Joe, but I can't just do nothing. Listen, I have to go. It doesn't feel like he's too far from here. You get the car. I'm going to try to find him." With that, Duncan rushed out of the door in all his disheveled glory, clothes tattered, blood all over him, naked sword in his hand.

 _He'll be lucky if he doesn't get himself arrested,_ Joe thought to himself in exasperation.

Joe exited the warehouse and went to retrieve his car, all the while cursing fate for a bitch under his breath, knowing that this endlessly long night just got longer.

Duncan made his way along the waterfront searching frantically for his friend, hoping to feel the distinct and welcome buzz of Methos' Immortal presence assault his senses. The night was dark and starless. There did not seem to be any lampposts on this end of the boardwalk. Duncan cursed the unrelenting darkness.

Suddenly, what was remote and empty was filled with the sweet song of Methos' Immortal signature. Duncan turned towards the street and took off running. He arrived just in time to see Methos pull away from the curb in his car and drive away. The old Immortal never looked back.

Joe pulled his car up and motioned for Duncan to get in. "Was that the old man?" Joe asked as soon as Duncan got in the car.

"Yes, but something's wrong...." Duncan paused. "I don't understand. Why didn't he stop when he felt my presence?" Duncan looked in the direction that Methos' car had gone with concern. "Listen," he said to Joe quickly, "drop me at his apartment. I want to find out what's going on."

"No, MacLeod," Joe said decisively, shaking his head.

"What?"

"Mac, leave it alone. Obviously, Methos is fine. He just drove home. Probably he didn't stop because he didn't want to see you. Probably thought you wanted to take his head or something. If there's anything going on, Methos can handle it. If he needs help, he'll ask for it. You're pushing the envelope here. Let me take you home."

"Fine," Duncan said sullenly, disturbed by the thought that Methos would not want to see him, would not want his help. Reluctantly, he let Joe drive him home.  



	3. Chapter 3

I dream of rain  
I dream of gardens in the desert sand  
I wake in pain  
I dream of love as time runs through my hand

I dream of fire  
These dreams are tied to a horse that will never tire  
And in the flames  
Shadows play in the shape of a man's desire

 _Desert Rose,_ Sting

+

Methos turned the key in the lock and let himself into his apartment.

 _Lips, pressed against the side of his neck, skin against skin, hips writhing passionately._

Methos shook his head, dropped the keys on the floor and absently pushed the door shut.

 _Tongue teasing. Mouth enclosing. Wet, frantic sucking, thrusting. Pleasure so intense, so keen–so close to pain._

Methos shrugged of out his coat. He pulled his shoes off and made his way up the stairs to the bedroom.

 _Hands on hips–sweet pressure, sharp pain. Thrusting. Sky exploding. Bright lights, shooting stars. Slow . . . death._

Methos fell, insensate, onto his bed and dreamed.

+

He was standing on the boardwalk, looking out over the ocean. The night–the glowering moon its only illumination–pressed down upon him, heavy with expectation. The surf sighed with a constant weariness and a salty breeze blew with a subtle susurrus. Somewhere out over the sea, a lost seagull cried.

He felt hands caress his body languidly, lips brush the white expanse of his neck sensuously, and heard his name whispered softly on the wind out of the unfathomable depths of night. He turned to his dark lover, smiling, pressing his body closer, skin against skin, and looked into . . .

. . . Duncan's eyes, liquid brown and glowing with love and lust. Methos shivered and reached out to wrap him in his arms, his erection straining, his body calling to the one person he loved more than any other.

Methos felt the rush of exquisite sensations overwhelm him, the sharp but momentary pain, his very essence pulled out of him like blood from an open vein. He raised his face to the heavens in ecstatic rapture and watched the sky explode, bold colors running rampant in front of his eyes. He felt his knees weaken, his heart falter. He could not pull in enough air to breathe. And as he was falling into the abyss . . .

. . . a strange feeling came over him which filled him with a longing more desperate than any he had known before. He could not understand what it was he longed for or why, but the feeling persisted nonetheless, as plaintive as a soul torn apart by damnation.

And as he was falling off the highest precipice, spiraling down into the pit of pain, of pleasure, of sweet ecstasy's dark embrace  . . . Duncan, his love, his lover . . . caught him, called him back, before he reached the utmost depths.

Methos was standing on the edge of a precipice and looked down into utter darkness, the absolute murkiness of the unknown. He turned and looked at Duncan longingly, straining to hear the words, the words that would save him, that would redeem him. The words he had been waiting to hear forever.

And Duncan smiled and beckoned to him, called him closer, his voice irresistible–as irresistible as a siren's song.

 _Methos, are you ready? It is time. Time to die, my love. You are a monster and I cannot suffer a monster to live. You know that._

Methos' heart faltered, stricken, as he watched a smiling Duncan step closer, within an arm's length, watched as Duncan raised his sword. Methos stared at him, transfixed, felt his past and all that he had ever known slip through his fingers like grains of sand.

"Do you fear the darkness, beloved?" Duncan whispered softly, lovingly, in his ear, the sound the barest exhalation, the gentlest zephyr.

Methos looked into Duncan's eyes, watched Duncan's sword rise and move to descend upon his exposed neck. Methos turned away, towards the hungry edge, and gave himself up. He gave himself to the unrelenting darkness.

 _And the lightning flashed. And the thunder roared._

Methos made a grandiose sign with long elegant fingers and all the men, his attendants, backed up and out of the vestibule. It was fit that they do so. Methos reached out his hand to press the symbols in the sequence that would open the door of the burial chamber, a chamber that had not seen the light of day for a hundred years, and was assaulted by an explosion of stale and rancid air emanating from the dark room. Methos called for light.

The light was bluish, unclear, and cast odd spectral images on the floor, ceiling and walls of the chamber. Methos made his way inside and looked upon the corpse lying on the death altar and knew the auguries to be true. For the body, in the silent repose of death, was a perfect replication of its living self.

Methos moved towards the corpse and breathed on it. He spoke to it shrilly, words that made no proper sense to the uninitiated. And, in course, the dead thing sat up and answered him in a whistling moan.

Methos spoke to it stridently, threatening it with its un-burial, and some loss injurious to its soul-life. He asked it questions and received answers but in no language that he could understand. Methos called forth the power of the gods in response to bind the undead and release its spirit to its eternal rest.

But despite every invocation, the dead thing rose, and stood, and moved across the room towards him, and behind him, Methos heard one of his servants scream, heard the door to the burial chamber slide shut. Before he could do anything at all, the dead thing attacked, sinking its teeth into the side of his neck.

The flickering blue light dimmed and went out. Unrelieved darkness wrapped its fingers around his throat, strangling him, drawing his very essence out of his body. Methos raised his face to the heavens and screamed a silent pray to his unheeding gods.

 _And the light from a stormy sky passed through him and became the stars._

"Uncle Benjamin! Uncle Benjamin! Did you see me?"

Methos looked up from his book, turned his head and looked at the child. The stark light of midday illuminated the boy's features, coalescing around him like an unearthly halo. Methos smiled warmly at the little boy–the little boy with the angelic face.

"I see you, little fox, but you had better get down from there and head into the house. It's time for supper. Your father will be looking for you." Methos watched as a cloud of disappointment darkened the little boy's features, and he smiled. Methos moved to catch the boy as he flung himself out of the tree.

"But you promised, uncle! You said I was old enough to hold your sword. You said you'd show me how a real knight learned to fight in the old days." He wriggled in Methos' embrace in agitation. "I'm not hungry!" he announced.

Methos laughed outright, set the little one on his feet and ruffled his unruly brown hair lovingly. "Liam, there will be time for everything you want to do. I will not be leaving for a fortnight yet. All true warriors have to learn the value of patience, and besides, if you do not get yourself ready for supper, your father will prohibit my teaching you anything. Now go!" He swatted the little boy on the rump and sent him scurrying into the manor.

Halfway to the door the boy looked back. The light. The light became suddenly, blindingly bright, and Methos had to shade his eyes. From a distance he heard the boy call....

"Uncle, you won't leave, will you? You promised." The boy gazed at him lovingly, trustingly, across the distance.

Methos looked up and the sky . . . the sky became streaked with color as the moon blotted out the sun, changed day to night. He glanced at the boy, saw time race past, the boy aging from five to seven to ten, as Methos stood still, rooted in place.

Until the darkness became absolute, and Methos could see nothing at all.

Methos heard a small, disembodied voice drift across the night currents, seemingly from everywhere and nowhere, plaintive and small.

"Uncle, you left me. The darkness–it is hungry. It calls me and I am afraid..."

And Methos shuddered and raised his face to the heavens as . . .

 _The stars burst in brilliance, one by one, and fell, called to earth and streaming across a midnight sky._

Methos heard the knock on the door, looked up from his computer and sighed in frustration. He knew only one person who would be knocking on his door at this time of the night. He glanced at the clock. Moonlight streamed through the open window and the face of the clock was illuminated with an eerie glow–two in the morning _. Great._

He headed down the stairs and towards the front door. His legs felt leaden, each step was a small battle. He proceeded in slow motion, each second an eternity. An Immortal presence assaulted his senses like a slap in the face, familiar and unwelcome. He opened the door.

"MacLeod. What do you want? Ever heard of a wonderfully modern invention called the telephone? Great thing, that. Maybe you should try using it sometime. Why in the world are you here? Now?"

"You know why I'm here."

"No, actually, I don't. Weren't you spending the evening with Joi? Won't she be looking for you? You wouldn't want her to find you here, now would you?" Methos' tone dripped bitter sarcasm.

"Are you going to let me in?"

Methos paused for a moment and then stepped aside so that Duncan could enter the apartment. He moved to lock the door.

Methos turned around and found Duncan standing there, in his space, crowding him. Duncan reached out and placed his hand on the back of his neck and pulled Methos close.

"MacLeod, what are you doing? What about Joi?"

"Methos," MacLeod whispered into Methos' neck, low and breathy. Duncan's tongue darted out and lightly explored the lobe and the outer ridges of his ear. "Methos, please. This has nothing to do with her," he said softly as his tongue traced a fiery trail from Methos' ear to his neck and back again.  His lips lightly kissed every exposed place; his hands stroked Methos' back, kneading his buttocks, begging a response.

Methos drew breath to protest, to stop the madness, but the sound was smothered before it was birthed by lips and a tongue that claimed his mouth wholly and passionately.

The earth tilted on its axis. Sensation played upon every nerve like a maestro does a piano. Methos abandoned reason and reveled in the pleasure of the moment and . . .

. . . seized control, a hawk glorying in the kill. He led Duncan upstairs, to the bedroom and into his bed. He stripped him of his offending clothes efficiently and hurriedly. He drank in the sight of his lover's naked body by the light of the ever-changing moon.

Slowly. Fiercely. Methos reclaimed the body that was denied him by the light of day.

Methos smothered his lover's mouth with lips and tongue, demanding sweet acquiescence. He shifted his grip on Duncan 's wrists so that he held him on his stomach, stretched taunt. The whole world narrowed to the damp slide of skin over skin, the unbearable vulnerability and the fierce, hot joy of possession, of shooting his whole being into his lover's trembling body. Silently, Duncan yielded to him and received him until they spent their passion in panting exhalations, unselfconscious grunts and high, clear cries.

"Methos!"

For a time, the only sound in the room was the sound of slowing breaths. Then Methos turned Duncan over and laid his head on his chest.

"I love making love to you," he said. "The feel of me inside you. It excites me so much–the feelings, they are overwhelming." Methos whispered all this quietly, hoping that there was something he could say that would make his lover see, make him understand how good it could be between them if he would only let it be.

"It overwhelms me too," Duncan said slowly.

Methos looked up and studied his lover's face for an indication of how he was feeling after this latest passionate bout. He watched as conflicted emotion ranged across Duncan's face. He could read his thoughts clearly as Duncan reflected on the dark wordless place that Methos' possession had sent him. He watched Duncan tremble as he recalled his body being shot through with lightning, burned inside out with ecstasy.

"Why?" Methos asked quietly.

"Because I am not myself," he answered, turning his face away. Methos watched as Duncan got out of bed and moved to gather his clothes.

"You're leaving," Methos stated slowly. There was no reason to ask; the answer was so obvious.

The shadows hid his face as Duncan bent over to pull on his pants. He straightened up but did not meet Methos' eyes.

"I have to go."

Methos glanced at the window, took in the night sky, watched as the stars seemed to flare and dim and finally wink out, one by one, until not a point of light relieved the dark expanse. He closed his eyes and opened them. He could not see anything at all.

And out of the darkness of the abyss he heard Duncan's voice say: _It is too dark for me here, Methos. I do not know such darkness and cannot abide. I must go._

 _And the world paused as the last star fell from the heavens._

Methos cried out plaintively–deep in the throes of his dream–as vaguely perceived shadows performed complex pantomimes with themes beyond his comprehension.

+

A new day dawned, bright with promise. Sharp, cleansing sunlight streamed through the windows, casting long shadows around the room. A hand snaked out from under the covers, swatted at anything and everything within reach and finally knocked the phone off the nightstand–anything to stop the infernal ringing. Methos cautiously removed the pillow from the top of his head and opened one eye slowly. He winced and took a deep breath. He gingerly shifted over to the side of the bed, leaned over and picked the phone up from off the floor.

"What is it?"

"Adam, it's Joe. How you doing, buddy?"

Methos sighed with exasperation. "I was fine until about two minutes ago when I was rudely awakened by my phone ringing off the hook. Why in the world are you calling me this early?"

"Adam, it's two o'clock in the afternoon."

"What!" Methos sat up in the bed abruptly, his head swimming, his senses reeling. "Damn, I missed my classes!"

"You have classes on Sunday?"

"Today's Sunday?"

"Umm . . . yeah. Today is Sunday, buddy. Yesterday was Saturday. You do remember what happened yesterday don't you?" Joe articulated every word carefully. He thought maybe the old man was finally losing it.

Methos froze as the events of the last day and a half came rushing back to him with a poignancy that made his eyes water. Duncan. The warehouse. The quickenings. _Damn._

Methos took a quick inventory. He was in bed, naked and none too clean with the remnants of blood and guts caking his hair and various other nooks and crannies. His head ached, pressure pounding behind his eyes. His body ached and his very bones were sore. He felt each and every one of his 5000 some odd years. Worst of all, he could not remember how he had gotten home last night. He remembered the fights and the brutal quickenings, the argument with Duncan and leaving the warehouse. And that's it. He felt his heart start pounding and his breath went in and out of his chest in short gasps as he struggled to remember . . . something. Something else had happened last night–something that he should remember. He shook his head.

"Adam, are you still with me, buddy?"

"Yeah, Joe. Listen, did you drive me home last night?"

"Did I drive you home? No, I didn't drive you home. You drove yourself home. Are you saying you don't remember what happened last night?" Joe asked worriedly. He was becoming concerned. Maybe Duncan was right. Maybe Methos needed some kind of help last night.

"No, I remember what happened. I'm just a little fuzzy about the details. It must be the quickenings." Methos tried to reassure Joe quickly. The last thing he needed was a nosey Watcher trying to mother hen him.

Of course, Joe did not buy into the hastily offered reassurances, but he let it slide for the moment, feeling that he could get the truth out of Methos later.

"Well as long as you're okay. I want to see you as soon as possible so don't disappear on me. We still need to talk about who is hunting you and what to do about the Watchers. I got some information this morning that I want you to take a look at."

Methos blinked and tried to concentrate on what Joe was saying. The quickenings he took last night were stalking the edges of his consciousness, coloring his perceptions with a rosy haze. He needed some time to pull himself together.

"Listen Joe, I have to go. I'll be sure to come by the bar later. I need you to do me a favor anyway."

"What do you need?" Joe asked cautiously. It was always prudent to be wary of Immortals needing favors, he had learned the hard way.

"I'll get into it tonight. It's rather complicated, and I can barely think straight right now."

Methos rang off and gingerly moved to get out of bed. He grabbed a robe and made his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. He resolved not to think about anything, not try to puzzle anything out, at least until after he had a shower. He felt soft fur tickle his ankle and looked down. He smiled as his cat, Bestat, wound her way against and through his legs, purring loudly. He bent to pick her up.

"Where were you when I needed you last night, hmm?"

Methos drank his tea, fed the cat and made his way slowly to the shower.

As he exited the bathroom, towel hanging low on his hips, finally clean and able to think linearly again, he considered his dilemma and the courses of action that were left to him. He spent some time drying his hair, running the towel through it, massaging his scalp. He hoped his ministrations would relieve the pressure behind his eyes.

Methos sighed. It seemed likely that because of Tom Askew, the Watchers were aware of his identity. And he was sure that he could expect to be accosted by other hunters sent by his unknown adversary for as long as he stayed in Seacouver. But his first concern had to be the quickenings he took last night. After all these years, quickenings tended to wreck his system, and taking so many at once meant trouble for him. He was going to need help before too long.

He walked over to his computer and sat down. He turned it on and opened his email program. He paused. Maybe this was not a good idea. Maybe he should just try to lose himself somewhere until this all blew over. He weighed his options carefully. He traced each probable outcome, each move and countermove like a chess master contemplating a complex game against his fiercest opponent. He made his decision.

From: palerider@sunlink.net  
Date: Sunday, November 12, 2000  
To: swdmstr@valhalla.com  
Subject: Urgent!

Need to see you as soon as possible. I am still in Seacouver.

M.

+

 _And the lightning flashed. And the thunder roared._   
_The light from a stormy sky passed through him and became the stars._   
_The stars burst in brilliance, one by one, and fell, called to earth and streaming across a midnight sky._   
_And the world paused as the last star fell from the heavens._   



	4. Chapter 4

For many, total abstinence is easier than perfect moderation.

St. Augustine

+

Joe looked up from cleaning the counter as he heard someone enter the bar. He was relieved to see Methos stride through the door. Joe felt like he had been waiting for him to show up all day.

He watched Methos saunter across the main room, artfully dodging tables and chairs. Joe noticed that he moved with more than his usual amount of grace. It was almost like watching a tiger pace its territory in some sort of jungle of bar equipment. He could almost understand why Duncan was so attracted to him....

Joe jumped. Was he just having _sexual_ thoughts about a 5000 year-old man? _About METHOS?_ Joe shuddered. It was a scary thought. He watched as Methos placed a rather large box on the counter and sat down on a stool.

The box looked . . . interesting. Methos was practically caressing it with his long, elegant fingers. He kept one hand on the box at all times, and if Joe had been a mongoose, perhaps the curiosity would have killed him. After all, how often does Methos walk into the bar with something so obviously important?

Joe knew he had to play it off, feign a disinterest in the box otherwise the old man would be merciless. Methos would play with him like a cat with a mouse–dragging  it out, dropping little hints and acting as if the box was not even there. Joe had to outsmart him. He had to know what was in that box.

"Hey, buddy. About time you showed up. And get that thing off my counter, would you? I just cleaned up." Joe negligently gestured towards the box.

Methos looked at him speculatively but did not remove the object from the counter. "Don't I even get a beer before you start ordering me around?" he asked instead. "Geez, talk about poor service."

"Don't even try it, buddy. You know we're closed today. You can get your own beer. I'm not your personal bartender."

Joe watched as Methos slowly raised himself off the bar stool and made his way behind the counter. Somehow the old coot managed to keep one hand on the box, lightly drumming his fingers and looking at Joe obliquely, through his lashes. Joe turned his back on him and the infernal box. He was starting to sweat and his palms were itchy.

 _Damn him!_ Joe thought to himself. _I am NOT going to ask him about that box!_ Joe turned back around as Methos seated himself with a bottle of beer in hand.

"So, how are you feeling?" Joe asked quickly before Methos could notice his state of agitation.

"I'm fine, Joe. No need to worry about me." Methos took a long swig of beer, and Joe notice the long expanse of neck, the tight grasp, the quick swallows....

Joe jumped. _What is wrong with me?_ He gave himself a mental slap and covered.

"Then why did you sound so spacey when I spoke to you earlier? I want to know exactly what is going on–no lies, no evasions. There's too much at stake. And if you try to skip town on me you _will_ regret it." Joe shook his finger at Methos. "I have resources. I'll hunt you down–"

"Take it easy, dad," Methos interrupted, batting his eyelashes at Joe, opening his eyes wide while Joe shuddered at the appellation. "I don't have too many choices left and you're my best source of information."

"Is that all I am," Joe said, feigning a hurt that was actually a hurt in fact, " a source of information? I'm hurt."

Methos looked at Joe intently for a long moment. Joe could see the gold flecks highlight his hazel eyes.

"You're a lot more to me than a source of information, Joe. You know that."

Joe looked down at the counter. He felt a little choked up and was embarrassed by it. His Immortals could be so endearing at times. It made it all worthwhile to him. Joe quickly changed the subject. He needed to find out what was really going on with Methos . . . and the box. He had to get Methos to tell him what was in that damn thing.

"Well, let me tell you what I found out about what the Watchers know and what they don't know. The bad news is that the office buzz says there is an unknown Immortal hunting the mythical Methos. Methos is supposedly holed up in Seacouver under the protection of one Duncan MacLeod. The good news is that no one seems to have made the connection that Adam Pierson is Immortal or that Adam Pierson is Methos." Joe stopped to gauge Methos' reaction.

"Right, but it's really only a matter of time," Methos said quietly.

Joe nodded his head noncommittally and continued.

"Tom Askew seems to be keeping quiet. Not surprising, that. You made it quite clear what you'd do to him if he opened his mouth, and he also knows that he's being watched. I contacted a few friends in the Watcher hierarchy this morning. Without going into any details or casting aspersions, I basically planted some suspicions about Askew's role in this mess. It will effectively clip his wings for a good long time."

"He's still a loose end, Joe."

"Yeah, I know. But, short of killing him, there is not too much to be done." Joe noticed the speculative gleam in Methos' eyes.

"No."

"But, Joe–"

"No. That's enough with the killing. He'll keep his mouth shut. If we have a problem we'll deal with it when it happens."

"You're awfully cavalier with my head," Methos accused wryly.

"You know I'm right. Besides, if you were going to kill him, you would have done it already."

Methos shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly, but then offered some insight into his reasoning.

"Killing him would serve no purpose, really. The Immortal who is behind all this, the 'mastermind' that hired Baine and company, undoubtedly knows who I am by now. Baine had more than enough time to get the information back to him  . . . or her. As for the Watchers, if they don't already know who I am–and that's a very big if–they will know as soon as the Immortals come pouring out of the woodwork trying to pick up where Baine left off. Someone's Watcher is bound to catch on at some point, either through observations of their own Immortal or by seeing me answer a challenge. So Askew is really immaterial. I just want him to keep quiet long enough to buy me some time to prepare." Methos continued, almost talking to himself more than Joe.

"I don't think that this mysterious Immortal will make my identity known generally. It's pretty clear that he wants me in one piece. If it became known that 'Methos' is alive and living in Seacouver, more Immortals than a few would be after my head. No, I think he will keep it to himself. He'll keep sending his own group of Immortal lackeys after me, trying to pick me up. If they don't succeed, eventually he'll have to come after me himself."

"So you're going to stick around," Joe said, surprised.

"Well, I don't really have too many choices. It's a completely workable tactic to make myself scarce when there's trouble in general that just needs to be avoided, or when someone is looking for 'Methos' but doesn't know whether Methos is real or fictitious let alone what he would look like." Methos ducked his head, playing with the label on his beer bottle.

"Anyone who holds a grudge against me but knows me only under one of my aliases is not likely to make too much of an effort to pursue me if I high tail it out of town. Anyone who knows me as 'Methos' on sight–and there are precious few of those–probably thinks me dead long ago, and if I just avoid letting them seeing me, I'm ahead of the game." Methos continued wearily.

"But this situation doesn't fall into any of those categories. I have an Immortal looking for me who knows who I am, what I look like and who my friends are. The world's gotten smaller, Joe. There are only so many places to hide, and you can only stay hidden from someone who is really looking for you for so long. It would be pointless for me to run now. I should have left when MacLeod first started up with Joi. I knew better, and now I have to deal with the consequences. I just never thought that he would tell her...." Methos trailed off, then got up quickly to get himself another beer.

"So you're just going to sit around waiting for this Immortal to show up and lop off your head?" Joe said incredulously.

"Offer the enemy a bait to lure him; feign disorder and strike him. Sun Tzu, Joe. He was short and I never could get him to stop using a three chariot triangle formation, but he was one shrewd fortune cookie." Methos grinned impishly.

Joe thought that if Methos could joke about it, maybe everything wasn't as dismal as it seemed. At least, Joe thought he was joking. _He didn't really know Sun Tzu . . . did he?_ Sometimes Joe thought he should strangle that infuriating old man, put an end to his delusions of grandeur.

"Besides, I like my life here," Methos continued. "I would hate to have to give 'Adam Pierson' up before his time. I finished my latest degree; I have a great job at the U, and I have obligations that I would hate to sneak out on. It's not as easy to set up a good alias these days. Everything is computerized and crossed referenced. No, I don't want to give it up unless I'm certain that it's necessary. If I can just hold out here, fend off whatever gets thrown my way until our mysterious friend makes himself known, I may be able to keep everything together."

"What exactly are we going to do to prepare?" Joe said quickly. If Methos was going to do this, Joe was sure he was going to need some help.

"We?" Methos asked, amusement lacing his voice.

"You can count me in, buddy. After all, I feel bad enough knowing that I was the one who suggested that Joi come here."

"It wasn't your fault, Joe," Methos added quickly. He didn't want Joe to get all wrapped up in a guilt trip. "You were just trying to help someone you thought was in trouble. If MacLeod had kept his big mouth shut–"

"Methos, listen. Don't be too hard on him. I know he's been a real asshole lately, but he cares about you and didn't mean to put you in danger."

Methos looked at Joe suspiciously. "What did MacLeod tell you?"

Joe's face flushed. He hadn't really wanted to get into this now. He really wanted to steer the conversation back to the box, but . . . _Oh, hell,_ he thought. _Better just get it over with._

"I know about your relationship with Mac," Joe said matter-of-factly. "I pretty much figured it out on my own, though he didn't deny it when I brought it up."

"Good," Methos said as he set his beer bottle down on the counter a little harder than was absolutely necessary.

 _Good?_ Joe didn't know what he expected but he expected a somewhat stronger reaction from Methos than that.

"I thought it was stupid to keep it from you in the first place," Methos added bitterly.

"So," Joe started cautiously, "you and MacLeod. Where are you going with that?"

"Nowhere."

"Nowhere?"

"I think he made himself very clear, Joe. Let me see," Methos raised his hand and started ticking off fingers. "I'm a monster. He hates me. I'm a coward. He hates me. I killed his _girlfriend._ He hates me. I am a murdering, raping, child-slaughtering, village -burning Horseman. Oh, and did I mention? He hates me."

Joe looked at Methos askance. If he did not know that the old man's sarcasm hid some real hurt, he would have been tempted to throw a bar towel at him. He threw the towel at him anyway.

"Hey, what was that for?" Methos sputtered indignantly.

"You know Mac. You know how he is. He pops off at the mouth before he really thinks about it. I'm sure that he's sorry about those things he said. I told him all about what really happened."

Methos smiled at Joe wistfully.

"I wish it were that simple, Joe. I'm tired of being MacLeod's personal punching bag. I'm tired of the accusations and the sanctimonious pronouncements. He's driving me crazy, and I don't know what I would do.... " He paused. "This thing between us–we're going to end up killing each other, and I just can't allow that. He's too important to the Game."

"So it's over. Just like that." Joe snapped his fingers.

"Basically, yes."

Joe looked at Methos skeptically. "So you're going to stay in Seacouver, continue to see him and work with him, but you'll be able to keep him at arms length? I don't think you can do it. I've seen the way you are with him–like a moth to the flame."

"Joe, you wouldn't _believe_ what I can do when I put my mind to it."

"Old man, you're fooling yourself. What do they say? The heart wants what the heart wants."

"But, Joe," Methos said tiredly, "I'm old enough to know that my wants won't kill me."

Joe took the measure of the resolve in Methos' eyes and knew that he meant what he said. But then, Joe knew his Immortal. Better, perhaps, than Duncan knew himself. Joe knew that as sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, Duncan would never let Methos go. The variable in the scenario was what Duncan was willing to do to prevent it. Joe was afraid that things were going to get much, much worse before they got better. He made one last attempt to reason with Methos.

"You know Mac is going to want to help."

"I don't need his help, Joe. I don't want his help. Dealing with him is a double-edged sword, and I'm tired of it. He's too young. He doesn't understand."

"Then why don't you talk to him! Explain everything!" Joe grabbed Methos' arm and shook it a little, trying in a small way to shake some sense into his friend. "If you just told him the truth for a change, be straight up with him, maybe he would understand."

Methos exploded out of his seat. "There is no truth that I can give him that he will understand! Life is so much more complicated than what one Immortal child needs to hear. There is nothing I can say that can change my past. No spin that I can put on it that will be good enough for the noble Highlander. I am what I am. I do the best that I can do . . ." The explosion seemed to suddenly deplete Methos. He sat back down and continued more slowly.

"Joe, he can never understand me. He has no frame of reference to understand what I am, what I've had to do to survive. He said it last night: he can never love me, and I finally believe it to be true. He is not familiar with the kind of darkness that is so much a part of me, of my past and of my present. He is a child of the light." Methos stopped and looked around the bar as if looking for ghosts haunting the corners of the room. Then he ducked his head and Joe had to strain to pick up his words.

"I knew better, Joe. I should never have gotten involved with him, an Immortal child. But I wanted him! Beyond reason, I wanted him more than anything that I have ever wanted. I thought I could teach him. I thought I could show him that there are more colors in the world than just black and white. But he just never heard me."

Joe placed a consoling hand on his friend's shoulder. "Methos, give it some time. Mac will come around."

"I can't, Joe. This is an all or nothing situation for me. I can't be his sometime lover, an old skin stepped into to pass the time between this woman or that. I tried it. It won't work for me. It won't work for him either, although he doesn't realize it. Look at this mess." Methos gestured with a hand. "No, I will let him go–for all our sakes. Perhaps someday, something of the friendship can be salvaged."

Joe looked at Methos. Wisdom was not something that Methos often laid claim to. In fact, he actively disavowed it at every opportunity to anyone expecting pearls of wisdom to drop from the lips of the 5000 year-old man, but he had it. In spades. Joe brought his attention back to his friend as he noticed him start drumming his fingers on the box again.

"Joe, there are a few things you could do to help me out. First, it would be a major benefit if we could identify my mysterious friend before he tries for me again. I need you to look in the database and see if those dead Watchers filed reports on their Immortals linking them with a common contact person. It's a slim possibility, especially since I know how backed up the reports get. Those Watchers may not have had time to update the journals before they died, but it is a possibility. If we could even get a location that they all visited recently it would be helpful.

"Second, I want to put an inside person on Askew. Someone to be his friend, his confidant, Someone that will contact us and let us know if he starts talking about me or if this unknown Immortal contacts him again.

"The last is a personal favor," Methos grinned sheepishly, "You know I keep my personal journals...."

Joe felt his hands begin to shake, his heart start to beat a mile a minute.

"Well, I would really appreciate it if you would help me process some of them." Methos' hand moved slowly, lovingly to the lid of the box.

 _I won!_ Joe silently crowed. It was not often that he got one up on the old man. He gave Methos a sidelong glance, a look that called the point without actually acknowledging the competition. Methos gave him a cocky little half smile and pulled out a book.

"Don't salivate on the counter, Joseph," he quipped. "It's very unattractive."

Joe closed his mouth.

"What I have here are some of the more recent journals, basically the last 500 years, and a series of CDs. The CDs contain the translations of many of my earlier journals–the ones that would be unintelligible to you–and a key to decode the work that I did on the Methos chronicles while I was with the Watchers. The key would allow someone to integrate my personal journals into the Methos chronicles and separate truth from fiction. The CDs also contain a listing of all the aliases that I've used over the years so that a person could link the appropriate miscellaneous journals to the chronicles." Methos stopped abruptly and looked at Joe, appraising him. He didn't want to cause his friend to have a heart attack.

"Joe, take a couple of deep breaths. Green's not your color."

Air gushed out of Joe's mouth in an explosive exhalation. He swayed on his feet and grabbed the lip of the counter for support. Never in a million years had he ever thought he would get his hands on Methos' personal journals. He stuttered, trying to voice a coherent thought. "But . . . but . . . but . . . _WHY?"_

"Why what, Joe?" Methos smiled at the Watcher fondly. "Why entrust you with my journals?"

Joe nodded his head vigorously, at a complete loss for words.

"I just think that it's time. Anything could happen with this mess. I just don't want something to happen and have my journals be up in the air. My whole life is there. I couldn't stand the thought of it all dying with me. I just have a bad feeling about how this could all play out. I would feel much better knowing that my journals, my legacy, were in the hands of someone I trust."

Joe looked at Methos, suddenly not liking the sound of his explanation. "What do you mean you have a bad feeling?" he asked slowly, dreading the answer.

Methos grinned. "Don't worry. I wasn't trying to be an alarmist, but I wanted to be straight with you. I expect everything to work out fine, but I want to make plans just in case. That's all it is."

Joe looked at Methos suspiciously and passed him another beer. "Well, what am I supposed to do with the journals?"

"Really, not too much. Look everything over. It may be a good idea to secure the journals under my aliases and make sure that they are on the short list to be computerized. Find a plausible way of linking them to the Methos chronicles. The more recent journals haven't been computerized yet, so that will need to be done eventually. No real rush on that, though, as the paper in the oldest journal won't be in jeopardy of disintegrating for some time. I have a photocopy of the recent journals, so you won't have to worry about having the only copy."

"I can't believe you are letting me do this," Joe said in awe.

"Someone has to do it, Joe, and I trust you. After all, I won't live forever."

"Stop it with that, okay! For someone who claims not to be an alarmist, you certainly have a morbid train of thought." Joe headed towards his office to the safe to stash away his prize possession. _Methos' journals!_ He felt like he was walking on air. This was the greatest gift, a gift beyond compare. It was unbelievable.

He came out of the office with a spring in his step, prostheses, cane and all. "Come on, let's go get something to eat," Joe suggested cheerily. He shoved Methos towards the door. "After you." he said cheerily. Age before beauty." 

Joe chuckled as Methos rolled his eyes at him, immensely pleased with himself as he followed his friend out of the bar.  



	5. Chapter 5

Turning and turning in the widening gyre  
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;  
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,  
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;  
The best lack all conviction, while the worst  
Are full of passionate intensity.

 _The Second Coming,_ W. B. Yeats

+

"Dr. Pierson!"

Methos looked around and saw one of his graduate students hailing him from across the quad. He stopped to let her catch up.

"Hi, Dr. Pierson. Do you have a minute?"

"Good afternoon, Ms. Dubois. What can I do for you?"

The young lady blushed. She always got flustered when she had to talk to Dr. Pierson one-on-one. In groups, she was fine, but to have all of his attention focused on her all at once . . . it was disconcerting. He was just too handsome by half! She wondered again whether he had a girlfriend. Everyone knew he wasn't married, but it was hard for her to believe that he wasn't involved with someone. After all, he couldn't be more than twenty-eight. He had to have some type of love life. 

She batted her eyelashes at him and smiled winsomely. _You never know when a girl could get lucky,_ she thought to herself jauntily, _and, if he's not married, he's fair game._

Methos effected one of his sterner expressions, the result marred only by the humorous twinkle in his eyes. Ms. Dubois was one of his best students, albeit a little unreliable at times where assignments were concerned. He had noticed that she wasn't in class that morning and there had been an assignment due. He was sure that her absence and the missing assignment were what this _tête-à-tête_ was all about. He watched her gird herself to deliver the Grandly Concocted Excuse, and he laughed to himself without altering his stern expression. He loved this part.

"Dr. Pierson, you may have noticed that I wasn't in class this morning...."

"I had noticed."

"And I suppose you're wondering what happened to me and my assignment and all...."

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"Well, first, I just want you to know that I'm okay...."

"I am relieved to hear it," Methos responded dryly.

"It was my computer, Dr. Pierson. You won't believe this but it exploded! I was sitting there getting ready to print out my assignment and all of a sudden I heard this strange whizzing noise and the computer–it started to smoke and emit these little static charges. And then, BOOM! It just went out in a blaze of glory. Well, of course I'm suing...."

"Ms. Dubois, how terrible for you!" Methos replied disingenuously, trying desperately to keep a straight face.

"Dr. Pierson, I know that this is no excuse for not having my assignment. In fact, I wouldn't dream of offering excuses. But you know, these things do happen. If you could just give me a small extension...."

"Ms. Dubois, if your assignment is on my desk by 9 a.m. tomorrow morning, I won't penalize you, after all, emergencies do happen. But, thereafter, it will be a half a grade a day until you hand it in."

"Thank you, Dr. Pierson! You're the greatest. I'll get it to you by tomorrow morning." The young lady rushed off.

Methos walked away, laughing to himself. He really loved teaching. The students were such a joy.

He was finished with classes for the day and looked forward to doing a spot of research for the next article he was writing. He started strolling in the general direction of the library. He thought, all told, it hadn't been such a bad day. Now if he could just avoid MacLeod....

"Adam!"

 _Well, so much for the wishes of gods and monsters,_ Methos thought to himself sarcastically. He sighed with a small explosion of breath. It was as if, suddenly, a cloud had obscured the sun. The day lost its luster. He ducked his head and continued on his way. He quickened his pace thinking that maybe, just maybe, MacLeod would get the hint and go away. But he should have known better. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was like a force of nature.

He felt Duncan grab his arm to halt his progress. He looked up and snatched his arm away. "What do you want, MacLeod?" Methos fixed his gaze on a point just over Duncan 's left shoulder. It seemed that something moved quickly not too far in the distance. He blinked and looked again. There was nothing there. Absently, Methos figured it must have been his imagination.

"I want to talk to you about what happened the other night."

Methos interrupted quickly. He definitely did _not_ want to get into this discussion in the middle of campus. No use feeding the gossip mill. "There's nothing to talk about, MacLeod." 

Methos started moving again, towards a somewhat secluded enclave of trees off the main path and by the side of the auditorium, forcing MacLeod to follow if he wanted to continue the conversation. 

Duncan trailed after him and quickly tried to get his bearings for the confrontation. He was so worked up, more than the situation warranted, and his proximity to Methos was making his palms itch. For some reason, Methos' Immortal signature seemed sharper, fuller, more flavorful–and louder than usual, even taking into account their unusual rapport that was a by-product of the double quickening. Duncan shook his head, trying to clear it, shivering as a chill ran up his spine. Methos' presence was almost stifling; Duncan felt laved in his essence from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes. It was erotic and frustrating. It made him want to grab Methos, strike him, push him down, ravage him, force his submission, kill him, take his head. He grabbed Methos' arm again to turn him around and force his attention. He found his hand moving subconsciously to where he usually kept his sword.

Duncan took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. He felt so out of control suddenly–he began to panic. Violence bubbled up, unbidden, from the center of his being. He struggled fiercely to control himself and, more importantly, to not let Methos see what he was thinking. With a supreme effort of will, he mastered himself and put his strange reactions aside to contemplate later–after he talked to Methos about everything else.

He looked at Methos, noticed how he stood there, staring off into the distance, seemingly resigned to letting him have his say. Duncan let his arm go and attempted to bridge the space between them. "I talked to Joe. He explained what happened," Duncan began self-consciously.

"So now you understand everything. I'm happy for you," Methos interjected sarcastically.

"Adam, you know I didn't mean all those things I said. It was just . . . I was just so mad. I'm really sorry–"

"Never apologize for the way you feel, MacLeod," Methos interrupted, his tones clipped. His gaze remained focused on a point off in the distance. "If that's all you need, I have some research to do." Methos turned to head back towards the library.

Duncan didn't know what he expected this first meeting to entail but this complete indifference to his remorse was unnerving. It threw him completely off his game, and he didn't like it one bit. He did not know what type of response he wanted from Methos, but he knew he wanted more than this.

"Wait a minute! I'm not finished." He grabbed Methos again, spun him around like a rag doll.

And Methos exploded.

"Dammit, MacLeod! Get the hell off me!" He knocked MacLeod back with a violent shove to the chest. Duncan stumbled and braced himself against a tree.

"MacLeod, if you have something to say then say it. I'm listening. Just don't touch me again." Methos finally turned his face and looked straight at him.

Duncan looked and looked and looked. He felt as if he was falling into a golden chasm, drowning in a pool of sunlight. These were not the eyes of Adam Pierson, or of the Methos he knew. These were the gilded eyes of a stranger, and they held no regard, no affection for him. Duncan mentally stumbled back to what he had been trying to say.

"Adam, listen–about what you said. About how you feel about me–"

"Forget it, MacLeod," Methos interrupted as he held up a hand to stop the flow of words.

"No. We never talked about love or about our feelings. I didn't know–"

"Didn't you?" Methos said mockingly with both eyebrows raised in disbelief. "It doesn't matter anyway, MacLeod. You made your feelings about me quite clear. In fact, you couldn't have been more clear about it."

Duncan felt himself start to lose his temper. He just couldn't believe how Methos was acting. Here he was trying to apologize for saying some inappropriate things in the heat of the moment and Methos was somehow making him feel like a criminal. His thoughts of conciliation quickly turned into an attack.

"Dammit, Adam! What did you expect me to say? You killed Joi in cold blood! She was mortal and unarmed! You beheaded those Immortals while they were incapacitated. That's not how it's done. It's against the rules!"

Methos grabbed the front of Duncan 's shirt, knocked him back against the tree. "Fuck the rules, MacLeod! What was I supposed to do? Let them kill you?" Methos spat furiously.

Duncan felt his gorge rise in disgust and lost his temper entirely.

"Don't even say that you did this to save me! I don't need that kind of help! I can't live with the things that you do on my conscience! I'd rather lose my head than live like you do!"

Methos was quiet for a moment then he let Duncan's shirt go and stepped back. His eyes were wintry shards of golden ice and his voice was perfectly modulated.

"I'll remember that. Next time." Methos turned to leave.

"Adam, wait! I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

Methos turned back around and sighed audibly. He was tired and really just wanted to go to the library. He thought, wearily, that maybe staying in Seacouver wasn't such a good idea after all. "MacLeod, let me tell you a story. It's a funny little story that the Arabian soldiers would tell many years ago when a vizier or a merchant or some other trader would get too high on themselves. I think you'll appreciate it.

A parrot, having been imprisoned in a cage with a crow, was vexed by the sight of that black bird and said: Oh, what a loathsome aspect is this! What an odious figure! What a cursed object you are with rude habits! Oh, crow of separation, would that the distance of the east from the west were between us." Methos paused dramatically, a mocking half smile on his face.

"More strange still, the crow was similarly distressed by the proximity of the parrot and, having become disgusted, was shouting _La haul!_ and lamenting the vicissitudes of time. He rubbed his claws against each other sorrowfully and said: What ill luck is this? What base destiny and chameleon-like times? It was befitting my dignity to strut about on a garden wall in the society of another crow." Methos smirked.

"The moral of the story, MacLeod, is simply this: _the one that you profess to hate so much hates you right back."_

Duncan stared at Methos for a moment, anger and hurt warring for supremacy. He felt like Methos was laughing at him, and he didn't like the feeling. "You know, Adam, you are unbelievable. I go through the trouble to track you down, try to apologize, give you a chance to explain and all you can do is tell stupid stories. Well, that's it. I'm through with this crap. You go your way and I'll go–"

Duncan stopped as the breath was knocked out of him, as Methos slammed him back against the tree. Methos placed his forearm to Duncan's neck and brought his face close. Duncan was so shocked that he froze for a moment, at a loss.

"You're through, MacLeod? _We_ will never be through! You have been my one concern for a thousand years and more. You owe me your life a hundred times over though you don't even know it. I've sacrificed everything and everyone for your sake. I killed my brothers! I bound myself to you beyond reason, knowing full well that you will be the death of me one day. _We will never be through!_ We will go on and on, until the end of your life and mine, and beyond if need be." Methos voice was low and fierce. His lips were lightly touching the side of Duncan 's jaw, close to the ear. Duncan could feel the heat of their bodies pressed close together, chest-to-chest, thigh-to-thigh, Methos' arm restraining him by the neck. Duncan could feel his body respond, feel himself get hard, the blood rushing to his penis, as Methos' tongue brushed his lips and placed there a light, teasing kiss.

"The only thing that ends here, today, is this madness between us. Listen to me, MacLeod. Never again will I tolerate your hands on me.

"Remember this last moment between us. Remember every touch of lips and tongue, every time that your body molded itself to mine, every sweet sensation that I invoked in you. I gave these things to you freely, the only things of truth between us. Remember them, as I will. Those memories will have to last us an Immortal lifetime.

"Remember, MacLeod. Write it down. Take a moment to describe the taste, the smell, the feel because there is one thing that I learned long ago." Methos' voice dropped an octave, and although his lips were close, so close to his ear, Duncan had to strain to pick up the words.

"The past is mutable and your memories . . . your memories will betray you."

Methos loosed him suddenly, like an invocation to the rising sun and backed away. Duncan stood there, leaning against the tree, stunned. He watched as a mask descended over Methos' face, a mask that changed the sharp planes of a face he knew like the back of his hand into the face of a stranger. Icy fingers wrapped themselves around his heart, and the silence, the silence was impenetrable.

"What are you talking about, Adam?" Duncan said slowly once he got his bearings. "What do you mean I've been your concern for a thousand years?"

"Forget it, MacLeod."

"No, I won't forget it! I want you to explain what you were talking about. Just when I think I know you, what to expect from you, you throw me another curve. There's always another layer, another set of lies. I never know what to believe with you."

"Our whole association is covered in lies, MacLeod," Methos said wearily. "You don't even know the half of it."

"Then you admit it!" Duncan said in amazement.

"Admit what?" Methos rolled his eyes with exasperation. "That I don't tell you everything? That after five millennia there are things that you don't know about me, things you will never know? That there are truths that I keep to myself, things you are too young to know, secrets that are not mine to tell?" A bitter half smile jerked the corner of his mouth. "No one knows, or will ever know, the truth about the gods and everything, for if one chanced to say the whole truth, nevertheless one would never know it."

"Don't quote Xenophanes at me, Methos. I hate it when you do that."

"Ah, MacLeod," Methos sighed in frustration, "yes, I lie to you about some things, and no, you do not know me. Not in the way that you mean. But you know all the most important stuff–the stuff that matters.

"The lies, MacLeod, they are like the thought of yesterday's rain as the sun shines on your face today. They are unimportant. Nothing matters except you and me, here and now. One day you will understand, although I doubt I will be here to benefit from your epiphany." Methos turned to go, hoping that, finally, Duncan would let him and give it a rest.

"We still need to figure out who's hunting you and why. I want to help. I feel responsible."

"You are responsible, MacLeod." 

Methos sighed and relented. It was so difficult to deny the Highlander anything, and it had been such a long day. "I don't need your help. I can take care of myself. But, don't worry. I won't go into the lion's den unprepared. I've called in reinforcements." He felt his lips quirk upwards. "Of a sort."

"What do you mean by 'reinforcements'?" Duncan asked suspiciously.

"Listen, I can't go into it right now. If you want to do something for me, let me practice at the dojo. Figure I'd better work off some of this rust if I want to keep my head."

"You sure didn't look too rusty the other night," Duncan commented with an undertone of sarcasm.

"Yeah, well, I'm not always that motivated."

"Is that all you're going to say about it?"

"Basically."

"And what happened to you when you left the warehouse? I had the feeling that you were in trouble. Were you injured? I felt you die, but by the time I got to you, you were already driving away. You didn't even stop."

 _Die!_ Methos thought to himself in astonishment. He quickly flipped through his memories of the other night and drew a blank, feeling tiny seeds of trepidation take root. He quickly covered his reaction and filed the information away to look into later.

"I don't know what you are talking about, MacLeod. I went home. End of story."

Duncan could feel himself losing his temper again over Methos' non-answers and decided to leave it alone–for now.

"You can use the dojo anytime you want. You have a key. I'll be available to spar with you after I teach my Tai Chi class in the evenings. During the Fall, we finish up around six o'clock."

Methos held up a restraining hand. "I won't be sparring with you, MacLeod. I learned a long time ago to only cross swords with Immortals that I intend to behead or ones that I trust with my life without the smallest doubt. It's one of my few black and white rules. You'd do well to adopt a similar policy in your dealings with others of our kind.

"You made your opinion about me quite clear the other night, MacLeod. I would think I would be the last person you would want holding a sword to your neck."

Duncan tried to deny to himself that he had ever given Methos the impression that he did not trust him. It particularly bothered him to know that Methos would assume that he did not trust him enough to spar with him, something that they had been doing together for years. He had the feeling that, in fact, Methos no longer trusted him.

He silently explored that feeling, the feeling that was based on the certainty that he no longer held the trust of his best friend. He felt it in the pit of his stomach. It was that incredible sinking feeling that you cannot adequately describe, that you can only know. That tightly coalescing fear that you have crossed a thin line and can never return, said things, done things that you can never take back.

Duncan watched as Methos gave him his patented lopsided grin, for all intents and purposes, the harmless, if sharply caustic, Dr. Adam Pierson. He wondered briefly if he had imagined it all, this entire sordid mess, but the eyes, Methos' eyes, were wintry and bleak–the beautiful eyes of a stranger.

Methos wrapped his coat tightly around himself and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He turned his back and started walking away. Duncan heard his parting words float towards him on the currents.

"I'll see you around, MacLeod, either at Joe's or at the dojo. Watch your head."

But he did not look back and Duncan had this strange feeling–this weird premonition–that he was never going to see Methos again. His Methos. He stood a moment, frozen in place, his mind fumbling for the words that would call his friend back, but in a what seemed to him no more than an instant, Methos was out of earshot and the moment had passed, the right words never spoken.

Duncan turned in the opposite direction and headed slowly towards the College of Arts and Sciences, but after a minute or so, he picked up his pace. He could not bring himself to despair. He took solace from that small place inside of himself, that place where the fire that was the bond between Methos and himself was banked. He felt along its edges, took its metes and bounds, assured himself that Methos was okay, that he was alive and well, that his Immortal essence, that essence that he could distinguish from every other, was still abroad in the world.

Duncan took heart. No matter where Methos chose to go, Duncan was sure he would come back. Methos always came back. As sure as the earth revolves around the sun, Duncan knew deep in his soul that his return was compulsory. Methos could not help himself.

And Methos, for his part, continued on towards the library and his research, oblivious to the hopeful self-delusions of a certain Highland warrior, reflecting wistfully upon how things fall apart . . . and tend to shatter.

+

'Call down the hawk from the air;  
Let him be hooded or caged  
Till the yellow eye has grown mild,  
For larder and spit are bare,  
The old cook enraged,  
The scullion gone wild.'

'I will not be clapped in a hood,  
Nor a cage, nor alight upon a wrist,  
Now I have learnt to be proud  
Hovering over the wood  
In the broken mist  
Or tumbling cloud.'

'What tumbling cloud did you cleave,  
Yellow-eyed hawk of the mind,  
Last evening? that I, who had sat  
Dumbfounded before a knave,  
Should give to my friend  
A pretence of wit.'

 _The Hawk,_ W. B. Yeats  



	6. Chapter 6

**Epilogue**

 _Monday Evening - DeSalvo Dojo, Seacouver_

Duncan sat down behind the desk in the office of the dojo and cast a dour eye on the mounds of paperwork waiting for his attention. It had been a long day, and the prospect of delving into paperwork at this point was somewhat less than appealing. He had managed to keep the situation with Methos out of his mind while he taught his Tai Chi class, but now that his busy day had coalesced into this singular moment of time, he found that everywhere he looked, everything he saw, reminded him of his friend.

To distract himself, he thought about his prospects for the rest of the evening and had to admit that he had grown unaccustomed to spending his evenings alone. He was used to having Methos around. They would spar, have dinner, watch television or go out to Joe's depending upon how they were feeling. When Joi had shown up three months ago, he had let her stay at the loft and she had occupied a lot of his attention. Duncan paused guiltily as he realized that the time he had spent with Joi had superseded the time he usually spent with Methos entirely. In fact, he realized that he hadn't seen much of the old man at all since she had arrived. And now that she was dead . . . everything just seemed so much clearer. Duncan wanted things to go back to the way they had been before. He thought he might go to Joe's tonight. Methos might be there.

He looked up as someone tapped lightly on the door to his office to get his attention.

"Umm, excuse me. Are you the person I would talk to about joining?"

Duncan stood up and offered his hand. "I'm the one." He smiled at the newcomer, glad to have something other than the situation with Methos to occupy his mind. "I'm Duncan MacLeod. They tell me that I own the place."

"I'd like to sign up," the newcomer said quietly.

Duncan sized him up. The dojo was not your average gym. Most of the members were hardcore martial arts fanatics, and Duncan wanted to be reasonably sure that any new member would fit in with the crowd. "Well, that sure was an easy sell. Let me give you some of the particulars, and then I'll sign you up." Duncan led the newcomer into the main area of the dojo.

"It's seventy-five dollars a month prorated to the first. You can pay month-to-month but all monthly payments are due by the 5th.

"Your membership fee entitles you to two martial arts classes a week. There are classes every day. The schedule is on the board by the door. And also the sign up sheet." Duncan gestured towards the front door. "You can take more than two classes a week but each additional class is ten dollars due at least a day in advance." Duncan guided his prospective client around the back of the dojo.

"Let me show you around.

"The locker room and showers are over there. They are open to all members but you have to bring your own lock. The room over there is used for sparring. If you don't already have one, you won't have a problem finding a sparring partner. Just ask around. People here are always willing to practice with you. Just remember, you use the facilities at your own risk so don't get in over your head.

"I teach a class every afternoon and occasionally have time for personal instruction if it's arranged in advance." He guided them back towards the office.

Duncan looked at the newcomer speculatively. He figured out the payment for the two weeks that were left in November and for the month of December and accepted payment. He grabbed the account book to write a receipt.

"Great. I just need your name."

"It's Angel."

"Well, Angel. Welcome to the DeSalvo Dojo."

 _Finis_   



End file.
